


Heartbreak Hotel

by MadameMorganLeFay



Category: Queer as Folk US
Genre: Drabbles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4435898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameMorganLeFay/pseuds/MadameMorganLeFay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Well, since my baby left me, I found a new place to dwell. It's down at the end of lonely street, at Heartbreak Hotel.</i> The cluttered yet curiously empty existence of Brian Kinney in the aftermath of his break-up. Drabbles for Early Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbreak Hotel

_“Well since my baby left me_  
Well I’ve found a new place to dwell  
Well it’s down at the end of Lonely Street at  
Heartbreak Hotel  
You make me so lonely, baby  
I get so lonely  
I get so lonely I could die.” 

Heard of _"silent as the grave"_? Brian Kinney’s Loft knows it well. For some reason, it's stopped speaking. Even the TV knows better than to scream its nonsense, and the door rarely groans when announcing a visitor. He hears his heartbeat even when cars zoom past outside or when he's ploughing into a six foot stranger. Silence. He tries the opposite, like turning on the stereo and slurping down beer but sound only humours him for a while before vanishing- at which point he'll retreat to bed, light up a smoke and count dust motes that fly in the air.

Why is everyone so cheerful? Brian is stumped. Surely if they could read his mood, they’d be blue too. But right now his downstairs neighbour just has to rave about her new Ming vases. Seriously. What does she need new vases for? Her apartment is littered with them! No one should buy new things before he does. His standards must be slipping. One evening Brian goes online and orders himself a new Italian couch that’s at least five inches larger than his neighbour’s. Satisfied with the expense, he proceeds to buy himself a glass coffee table and matching fruit bowl.

Brian isn’t proud of it, but he follows Justin home one night in his car. It’s awfully embarrassing, but no one knows. Besides, he rationalizes this by explaining that if anything happens, at least he knows where to find the guy. And should Justin fail to take his allergy meds- as so often happens- he can make a surreptitious drop through the post. It’s a win win situation. He hears violin music blaring from way up above, and glances up to see Ethan’s swaying silhouette in the uppermost window. Much as he hates to admit it, the kid can play.

Smoking by his window for hours helps. People don’t know Tremont Street is a prime location for gazing at hyperactive city life. He prefers night time; darkness shrouds secrets and lies. He doesn’t need to impress anyone at night. The fucking is an extra bonus. Lights off, inhibitions off, whip out a condom. Well… at least when he has someone to accompany him- which, let’s say has been a struggle as of late. Turns out people prefer dinner and TV to the great outside. Safety, and all that. It’s ludicrous. Any gay man who stays in after nine isn’t gay.

Brian thinks a tidy bathroom is an underrated delight. He spends at least an hour each day ordering his shampoos according to fragrance and how much he paid for each. Screwing the caps on tight, he turns his attention to his soap bars. Once they sit exactly in the centre of each soap dish, he examines his perfumes and moisturisers. Once again, he makes a mental note to write to L’Oréal demanding an explanation for why, after seven years of loyalty, their creams still don’t make him look nineteen. Fraudulent advertising really ought to be punished with a jail sentence. 

Is it just him, or are tricks sounding a lot more smug these days? The last guy who sucked him off had the nerve to say, _“So, didn’t work with you and Justin, huh?”_ Brian wanted to throw him out head first; he settled for a push. Every time he visits the back room, a hopeful cluster of potential and previous sex partners make no secret of their availability as boyfriends. Fuck no. He shoves past them to find someone who doesn’t know him yet- a task that proves easier said than done. _“Oh my God, are you Brian Kinney?!”_

Sweet oblivion. Jimi Hendrix. Raw weed. Brian’s Saturday afternoon staple since fourteen. He crawls out of bed, crawls under it to find his stash of drugs, shuffles to the couch and lies down. Purple pills are for the evening, poppers for eleven at night, and weed for every time of the day. Weed makes life beautiful. He can see yellow mushrooms floating in mid-air, tangerine trees and marmalade skies. Nothing can hurt him. Jimi said so. Brian loves Jimi Hendrix. They should have met; they’d have hit it off. He smiles at that whilst his joint burns. Neptune is rising. 

Gus demands to know where Justin is. Kids are so damn nosy he wants to sew their mouths shut. Brian says, _“How about we play with your trains, sonny boy?”_ For a while that prevents any other enquiries. Gus’s coordination is improving, according to his moms. He’d like to keep up but the cameo appearances are easier to handle. It might be embarrassing having to ask when Gus learnt to say the number “ten”, or sit on a chair, but what can a man do? At least he can bond with his son over a train set. Brings back memories.

One day he wakes, knowing he needs a new lamp-stand. Most of them come in parts, which he puts together. He likes that. Working with nuts and bolts comes naturally to him. Dear old Jack Kinney drummed that into his head from birth. _“Handling a wrench and a screw’s for real men, sonny boy!”_ And Brian would nod, glad he wasn’t being hit over the head with a beer bottle for once. In time, the new lamp stand comes, and he spends an hour fixing it up. It’s got blue light bulbs. Emmett says, “Blue matches your mood lately, Brian.” 

The Professor gives him sympathetic looks whenever he comes round Mikey’s. Brian squirms and looks another way. He refuses to be pitied by someone who derives their entire life philosophy from medieval ramblings. Where the fuck is Japan? Who, or what is _“The Buddha”_ , and why should Brian Kinney give a fuck about him? Honestly. And he won’t eat meals he can’t pronounce if he can help it. Although this time, the fish and noodles don’t make him puke. Ben insists on tiny candles decorating the dinner table, so Brian almost burns his hands twice reaching for salt and pepper.

Brian nails the Milton Colby account. After a string of clients who wouldn’t be pleased even if he offered to rim their asses once an hour, he finally pulls the stunt of his life. He was up until midnight for days, writing and re-writing his sales pitch. _“I offer you the representation you won’t find anywhere else, because I understand your product. You want visionary, you reject the ordinary. You don’t follow trends- you predict them. Take me on board, and I will grow your market beyond expectations.”_ His hand aches at the end of it, but they say _“yes”_. 

His accursed family still know he exists! Claire phones up asking for a hundred dollars; Brian refuses. Tells her to go fuck herself, in fact. He doesn’t give handouts to layabout, fag-hating family members. She can go walk the streets for all he cares. They shout at each other over the phone whilst his cleaner Anita pretends not to listen. Claire calls him a _“goddamn fag”_ , and hangs up. Fair play. Had she stayed on the line longer, he would have replied in kind. Fucking screech. He spends the rest of the day at a bar, drinking himself into oblivion.

Turns out Justin didn’t take all his clothes with him when he shipped out. Brian finds two plaid shirts lurking at the back of his wardrobe. He stares at them for a moment. Next day, he hands them over to Justin at the Diner, who smiles at him. He can’t concentrate for the rest of the day. Must be the shots of Russian Standard he had last night. A couple of days later, he finds two of Justin’s favourite 4B art pencils under his couch. Brian remembers joking about how he’d stick them up Justin’s ass. Instead, he keeps them.

_And though its always crowded,_  
You still can find some room  
For broken-hearted lovers do cry away their gloom  
You make me so lonely, baby  
I get so lonely  
I get so lonely I could die. 

This would be the tenth time he has tried to watch “Titanic” without falling asleep at some point. Seriously. Why is this film famous? The only reason he chose this video was because he isn’t in the mood for porn, and Mikey has once again refused to accompany him to Babylon. He would have chosen “The Godfather”, but he’d lent that to Marty. He has watched every other video at least three times, and Star Trek nights aren’t the same without Mikey. So… "Titanic" it is. And his mood sinks faster than the damn ship itself. Screenwriters are seriously overpaid.

If Brian Kinney didn’t bother to do his groceries, he’d have starved to death. Fortunately, Anita can cook as well as clean, so he pays her extra. Since Justin sailed off, there are no more “Pasta Nights”, or experimentation which inevitably turned his kitchen into a war zone. The gas rings flared red and banana peel lurked on the ground, waiting to trip him up. Still apparently worth it for sumptuous dishes like jambalaya and tuna nicoise- even if Justin never added enough pepper to either. Nowadays, his fridge only contains peach yoghurt, guava juice and a little string cheese. 

Vance is dating again. This spares Brian the pain of hearing his partner rant about _“greedy bitch ex-wives”_ from dawn till dusk. Vanguard is having a corporate dinner next week Thursday, so Brian gets to meet the new lady. Hallelujah! He glares at his notepad. Another evening spent shaking hands with clueless breeders and manoeuvring the conversation away from his lack of a wife. Still, at least there’ll be medium rare steak and Sauvignon Blanc on the menu. And if anyone asks him to join them on a golf retreat this time, he will decline. Sane people never play golf. 

His mother leaves a rambling voicemail condemning him in Biblical terms for insulting his sister. _“If you’d rather waste money on the sinners you spend time with than your own flesh and blood, then I really see no hope for you.”_ Brian clutches the receiver so tight his knuckles turn white. Blood boils in his veins at her sanctimonious voice. _“God is ever merciful, and there is still time to repent to save yourself from the fire. I believe in you, Brian. Jesus died for your sins: he wants you to enter paradise, son!”_ Trembling with rage, Brian hangs up. 

Sex is good. He’d enjoy it even more were his heart in the game. He used not to think, now he measures each movement and concludes that it takes around seventy to ninety thrusts to reach an orgasm. Levels of horniness and the amount of drugs taken beforehand are taken into consideration, too. All in all, each encounter could last between fifteen to forty-five minutes, which fits snugly round his work schedule. When he has a little more time, he hires a hustler: always blond, mid-height, wearing a hoodie and sneakers. Costs three hundred dollars upfront, but definitely worth it.

_Well the Bell hop tear's keep flowing_  
And the Desk clerk's dressed in black  
Well they've been so long on Lonely Street  
They ain't ever gonna look back  
You make me so lonely baby,  
I get so lonely  
I get so lonely I could die. 

He visits the drug-store for something to soothe his stomach pains. Daphne’s at the counter, wrapping bottles for a pensioner who looks like she might kick the bucket any minute now. _“Have a good day”_ perhaps isn’t the wisest thing to say given her pitiful state, but hey. _“Do you have anything for stomach-aches?”_ he says. Of course she does. Daphne knows everything. By the time Brian has finished listening to her in depth explanations about three possible options, he could have passed the entrance exam for medical school. He can see why she and Justin are friends: nerds attract.

Marty returns “The Godfather”. For a guy with the build of a bouncer, he looks rather spooked. _“All that death, Bri. The Don is mental, you know? Fucking owned the streets! Your signature or your brains, man! Fucking hell, I won’t be sleeping peacefully tonight!”_ Brian pats Marty on the back. _“This is a cinematic classic, sonny boy. Marlon fucking Brando. It’s meant to fuck with your mind.”_ He rummages around his VHS collection. _“Here’s something that might be more your taste: Titanic.”_ Marty chuckles. _“DiCaprio’s sexy in that one.”_ Raising an eyebrow, Brian switches videos. He thinks so too. 

Two birds decide to use his windowsill as a perch, so he wakes up to their twittering and squawking. Honestly: it’s like Nature conspires to prevent him from sleeping. If they throw another morning concert outside his window again, he’ll wring their necks and roast them for dinner. No kidding. Perish the thought. They’re actually cute and way too small for him to murder without guilt. Instead, he litters seeds on the sill and watches them squabble for dominance. He wishes he was a bird. He’d fly off like a coward at the slightest hint of failure or misery. Simple. 

Deb makes him a huge bowl of tuna macaroni, and leaves it on his kitchen table alongside a box of chocolate cookies. He has a lump in his throat, although he insists that it’s the remnants of an infection he caught off Vance last month. Nevertheless, the same woman who always attacked him for hurting her beloved Michael apparently doesn’t want him to starve to death. Maybe she’s only keeping him alive for another round of her _“Why did you ruin my son’s life?”_ lectures, now served with a new dessert of _“Tell Sunshine you love him, you heartless shit!”_

Marty says one of the regulars at the baths got arrested last week for public indecency: waving his cock at an officer. The accused then ran off to said baths where he got roughed up by some blue suits ten minutes later. Brian laughs himself silly, and two fuck-buddies tell him to shut the fuck up. No one is supposed to speak at the baths, except to say _“Harder! Faster!”_ The rest is articulated in groans. Brian lets a guy rim him whilst he deflowers a newcomer. Marty ogles them, pumping his cock with a vengeance. He’s a real pal. 

A new spa opens down-town and Brian hops into his car, determined to be the first customer. They offer full body massage at extortionate rates that would make his neighbours jealous when he oh-so-casually mentions he’d been there, done that. Oh- and the men are delicious! This is heaven for connoisseurs of tight buttocks- praise Jesus! His masseuse makes no secret of assessing his cock, and after the session, they lock themselves in the nearest bathroom and fuck. He drives home with sex hair and smelling like jasmine. His smile vanishes when he sees The Fiddler and Justin walking past. 

Brian may or may not have found a cure to his silent Loft. Whilst out in the city, he stopped by the record store and bought a stack of classic rock albums: Led Zepp, The Who, Metallica, Hendrix. Everyone. Now he assigns an album to each day of the week, and plays it in the background. Simple, yet effective. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? An ambiance of anarchy can only be improved by music preaching a similar message. He brushes his teeth to “Behind Blue Eyes”, and cuts his nails to “Dazed and Confused.” Works like a dream. 

It’s amazing that a seasoned Fortune Teller like Mysterious Marilyn hasn’t yet predicted someone will tell her to _“just fuck off”_. Everyone knows fortune tellers are frauds, especially Brian, who hates anything that isn’t precise and logical. He doesn’t want Marilyn’s nail varnish scratching his palms any more than hearing her say, _“Your pain is caused by the unfortunate alignment of Mars and Jupiter at this time. Trust in your birth star and avoid Penn Avenue next Tuesday.”_ For fuck’s sake. Then he finds out from Deb that there was a drugs bust at a nightclub on… yes, Penn Avenue. 

For heaven’s sake, if Gus asks after Justin one more time, he might explode. Turns out his willpower doesn’t stand a chance against his son’s wide eyes. Looking into a miniature version of himself disturbs him, and makes it harder to say _“How about we play with your trains, sonny boy?”_ Kid’s getting hip to that game. He now drops hints about wanting to draw, knowing full well his old man sucks with a pencil and brush. “Me and Justin always drawed stuff, Daddy.” And what? He can’t magic Justin out of thin air. Can’t they just play trains… please?

Last night’s episode of CSI had him on the edge of his Italian couch. For once, he couldn’t figure out who the murderer was until the last ten minutes. Brian likes forensic science. In fact, he’d have chosen this path had he not fixated on a job that would earn him heaps of cash. His Chemistry teacher told him he could go places after his Glue Project got A plus-plus. He still keeps a stash of Chemistry books under his bed. Ionic and covalent bonds, alkanes and halogens… he fucking loves it. If anyone finds out, he’ll die of embarrassment. 

Brian resents seeing The Impostor at the Diner, and even more so when Debbie calls him _“a fucking cutie.”_ Why, Debbie rarely shows him any civility, and they’ve known each other for over twenty years! And yet this half ass musician gets to waltz in and transport everyone to Cloud Nine with his smooth words. Damn him. There isn’t room for the two of them at Liberty Diner, and if Ethan plans on making it his permanent haunt, then he, Brian, will find somewhere else for his morning coffee. It isn’t that difficult. Somehow, he keeps buying from Liberty Diner. 

For some reason, the days have lost their excitement. He lives on auto-pilot, complete with a set of manufactured facial expressions for every person, every occasion. Emmett says _“You’ve lost some of your gusto, Kinney- how about a spa retreat with my Fashion Club?”_ Trying not to spit out his coffee, Brian shakes his head and returns to his faithful newspaper. Apparently the dollar is down against the pound for the second day running, and the President is worried about China’s growing economic dominance. Maybe now would be a good time to invest in Chinese manufactured goods on Dow Jones. 

The shrink Brian used after Justin’s bashing reappears one night at Woody’s. _“I was in Hawaii, old pal! Check the tan.”_ Not bad, although it now clashes with his white hair. Still, who is he to argue with a Yale graduate? _“You look deflated these days, Brian. Anything you want to share? Go on- I’ll give you the first half hour free.”_ Brian shakes his head, and buys the shrink a drink to shut him up. _“Did your boyfriend recover from his bashing?”_ All the air inside Woody’s disappears and time stands still. _“I never had a boyfriend, Dr Nosy.”_

Despite his obvious discomfort, Justin keeps his tips. And they are able to hold a basic conversation, though mostly full of mono-syllables: _“How are you?”_ and _“Fine, thank you.”_ He prefers this unspoken truce as ignoring Justin felt odd, somehow. Difficult to imagine. At least now he can dictate exactly how he wants his sandwiches made, and God help Justin if he fails. Lettuce, then turkey, then tomato, then more turkey so the bread doesn’t get soggy. NO MAYO! Wholemeal bread, always. Justin rolls his eyes, but smiles as though used to fussy, threatening customers. Brian wants to kiss him. 

But he can’t.

_"Now if your baby leaves ya_  
and you've got a tale to tell  
Just take a walk down Lonely Street to  
Heartbreak Hotel  
You make me so lonely, baby  
I get so lonely  
I get so lonely I could die.” 

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES:
> 
> 1- Heartbreak Hotel- Elvis Presley.  
> 2- _"tangerine trees and marmalade skies"- Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds- The Beatles._  
>  3- _"Neptune is rising."_ \- from "Valleys of Neptune" by Jimi Hendrix.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to Frayach for suggesting drabbles to cure writer's block. It definitely worked!


End file.
